


Dies Irae for Two Voices (A Love Song in Viscera)

by rosenritter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dubious Consent (of the important undisclosed information variety), Eventual mpreg, Horror, Knotting, Language of Flowers, M/M, Massively AU, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Horror, Scenting, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, inspired by Saya no Uta, later on sensory porn, sensory horror, slow burn seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosenritter/pseuds/rosenritter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They say he is in a pristine hospital room with a perfectly sterile floor. They say the bed he lies in is state-of-the-art and that the things he feels covering his arms and legs are crisp white sheets. They say he has a little table at his bedside with a vase on it, and sticking proudly out the top of that vase is a beautiful arrangement of rhododendrons, snakeroot flowers, and scarlet amaranthus.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>This is not what Will Graham sees when he dares to open his eyes or what he feels when he dares to touch anything but the insides of his own clenched fists.</em></p><p> </p><p>Will Graham has awoken to a horrifying, twisted world following an intense illness and a brief coma. No longer able to trust his own senses due to a strange perception complication, he begins to succumb to depression. When his doctor brings in a new psychiatrist in an attempt to help him rebuild the shambles of his life, he meets the one person who is seemingly unaffected by his disorder. But is it a happy coincidence, or is there something more beneath the surface?</p><p>TEMPORARY HIATUS DUE TO IMPENDING INTERNATIONAL MOVE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: Depression and suicidal thoughts, including suicide/self-harm imagery 
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, elements of this story are inspired by the Nitroplus visual novel "Saya no Uta" (Saya's Song). You don't need to know anything about that story to follow this one and probably the less you know the better. This chapter references one of the game's endings as a psychiatric anecdote, however, but is vague enough to avoid the game's major twist. Otherwise, there are no shared characters, no lifted dialogue, and the plots are very different. Though I obviously think some of "Saya no Uta" is very interesting, I... honestly don't think I can recommend it. If only it didn't have a lolicon character design. Sigh.
> 
> A portion of the title comes from a [Latin hymn](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dies_irae) which appears in all sorts of musical contexts, but the one I've been listening to most while working on this is the version popularized by Mozart. [You're very likely familiar with it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yX-I_2WnURA)

They say he is in a pristine hospital room with a perfectly sterile floor. They say the bed he lies in is state-of-the-art and that the things he feels covering his arms and legs are crisp white sheets. They say he has a little table at his bedside with a vase on it, and sticking proudly out the top of that vase is a beautiful arrangement of rhododendrons, snakeroot flowers, and scarlet amaranthus.

This is not what Will Graham sees when he dares to open his eyes or what he feels when he dares to touch anything but the insides of his own clenched fists.

When he does dare to look, the walls and floor are grimy, rust-colored, and here and there afflicted with spots of ominous black mold. The mattress of his bed appears soiled and battered, ensnared by its claw-like metallic frame. A thin, mostly-transparent membrane extends out from the foot of the mattress; it is clammy against his skin and pulsates slightly with the subtle constrictions of a network of dark spidery veins. A bulge extends out of the floor nearby, thick and calloused like a poorly-healed scar. Some spiraling, thorny weeds Will has never seen in nature inexplicably sprout out the top of the fleshy lump; if Will gets too close to them, he is hit with the strong scent of rot.

And all of that is so much easier than when he is forced to speak with the things that shuffle into his room, claiming to be his doctors and nurses.

As if on cue, he hears the loud thumps that he has come to recognize as knocks on his door. He knows whatever is outside will just come in anyway, so he’s stopped responding to the sound. He simply shuts his eyes tighter and turns on his side, curling up with his back to the scratched and rusted door as it opens with the rusted shriek of stressed metal.

He hears the sharp clack of what may be talons against the floor. “Hello, Will,” the deep, guttural voice croaks. “How are you today?”

Will says nothing.

“It’s been a couple of days since you woke up, and after persistent pestering on my end, they finally let me in to see you. To talk to you. Get an idea on what you’re going through and… how you’re coping.”

“Which one are you?” Will mutters. 

The voice sighs. “It’s me, Will. Alana.”

Will hasn’t seen what Alana Bloom looks like in this terrible new world of his, and he’d like to keep it that way. She had been one of the few pillars of kindness in his life before everything fell apart. The way she had walked the line between giving him professional support and legitimate friendship had been like watching a master tightrope walker dance across the thin, wavering line dozens of feet off the ground. The last thing he needs is for the warm and pleasant memories he has of her to be twisted and tainted by whatever is poisoning his brain. To watch the tightrope walker fall into the tiger cage below.

He keeps his eyes shut tight. Deep in his mind, he casts out a line for a memory of Alana’s appearance. He reels in the memory of speaking to her shortly after the discovery of the Angel-Maker’s body suspended high up on the rafters of the barn. His mind had been simmering with a low-grade fever, a prelude to the all-consuming inferno which would soon sweep through his brain, so perhaps that is the source of what he had seen that evening in Alana Bloom's office. After days of seeing fiery-headed demons on the streets, in his mental recreations, and even in the mirror, he sat in a chair opposite Alana Bloom and marveled at the halo of soft golden light glowing around her face. An Angel in no need of fleshy handmade wings.

This is what he now desperately projects onto the back of his eyelids so his imagination won’t run wild in its dark speculation. It will take all his concentration, but he knows Alana well enough to guess her body language. And maybe, just maybe, he can even superimpose the sound of her voice over the hideous, gravelly tone if he really focuses.

“You all sound the same now,” he says. “If you’re really Alana, you’ll need to answer a question so I know it’s you.”

The angelic Alana in his mind gives a small, sad frown. “I understand,” she says in the voice that has given him advice in measured tones, laughed with him, cried with him, and – once or twice – yelled at him. Her own voice. The sound of it sits atop the guttural sound like the English laid over a foreign language in a hastily-dubbed news clip.

“If you’re really Alana, which of my dogs is your favorite?”

“Winston, but Bumbershoot is not without her charms.”

“And why did I name him that?”

The mental Alana’s frown turns to a small, wistful smile. “Because you found him down the street from a church on a hill, and you’re a ridiculous cornball when it comes to naming dogs.”

Will lets out a long, trembling breath as an equally hesitant, wavering smile tugs at his lips. Heavy teardrops squeeze out from between his shut lids and get trapped in his dark lashes. “ _Alana._ It’s really you.”

“It’s me,” she says. Her smile of relief and connection is radiant but brief, and soon it fades back into grim concern. “What have the doctors told you about your condition?”

Will gives a bitter laugh. “Not much. I’m pretty sure the one calling itself Sutcliffe will want to finalize and formalize a nice, elaborate, self-congratulatory name for the disorder first. Maybe win the Nobel Prize in medicine before it talks to me in any meaningful way. You have to have that first before you tell the person who’s actually suffering what he may expect for the rest of his miserable life.”

Alana’s brows furrow in confusion. “Why do you keep saying ‘it’ when you refer to Dr. Sutcliffe?”

Will sighs. “Male, female, Alpha, Beta, Omega… I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

The mental Alana’s shoulders sag. “He’s a Beta, but one who seems like he’s spent most of his life trying to sit at the Alpha’s table,” she says. “Can you elaborate on not being able to tell the difference?”

“All voices sound like thunder echoing in a long-forgotten, bone-filled catacomb. All scents are putrid and sting my nose with notes of poison. And as for looking at things… well, that one I can control, so I’ve learned to keep my eyes shut whenever possible.”

“Is it just people, or-“

“It’s _everything_ , Alana. Everything but me. From the floor to the ceiling and every speck of dust in between. I dragged myself to what I assume is the window in this room yesterday so I could get a look at the sky, the city, life elsewhere. What a mistake. All of my senses have turned against me in the most horrifying ways imaginable, and Sutcliffe would have me writhe beneath his microscope indefinitely for it,” Will says. 

“I’m going to talk to him about this, Will. From what you’ve described, it sounds like an as-yet-undocumented form of agnosia or some other perception disorder, which means we’re all in unexplored territory. Sutcliffe needs to be communicating with you more effectively so you don’t feel lost at sea.”

“I’m more than lost,” Will says. “My boat has sunk and the sharks are circling. I don’t think you understand, Alana. I can’t tread the water forever. The fact that I’ve done so for three days is a small, morbid miracle in itself.”

“Will…“

“And as my semi-psychiatrist and my friend, or the closest thing to a friend someone like me can get, you deserve to know that I am thinking very, _very_ strongly about how satisfying it would be to let the waves pull me under.” 

At this point, he thinks, Alana would reach out to touch him. Just a small, warm gesture to remind him that he is not alone. Or perhaps she would shake his shoulder in frustration in an attempt to snap him out of it. Either way, he knows what's coming.

“Don’t,” he says. The projection of Alana stops with her hand just above his shoulder. “My brain will think I’m being clawed or stung by nettles, and I don’t want to break the illusion.”

Now that he’s directly addressed the notion that his mental projection of Alana is a fake, Will feels his concentration start to waver. The halo of light shining around Alana’s dark hair begins to dim and finally flickers out. For a few brief milliseconds, the Alana inside his head looks gloriously normal: neither angelic nor monstrous. But then his concentration gives out entirely and she disappears in a puff of swirling, evaporating particles, and all he sees is the orange-reddish color of light filtered through his closed eyelids. 

“I’m not going to give up on you, Will,” Alana says. With his focus gone, her voice has once again been reduced to the low, eerie rumble he hears out of everyone. It makes her words sound more like a threat hissed by the beast under the bed than a vow of solidarity. It makes his heart sink even lower, a feat he wouldn’t have believed possible five minutes ago.

Will does not respond. He hears the clacking of Alana retreating from his bedside. There is a pause, followed by a soft, rattling sigh. Once again he is alone. He curls in on himself further. 

His dreams and imagination used to terrify him most of the time. Now he almost welcomes it when memories of grisly mutilations come bubbling up to bob on the surface of his mind. For all the spilled blood, the carved flesh, the entrails strewn about, the missing limbs – their forms are still recognizably human.

\-----

Alana’s sensible heels click ferociously against the white tile as she storms down the hospital corridor. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pressed into a tight, thin line of barely-contained fury. A young nurse with a short, blonde bob cut and a harried expression trails behind her like a dry leaf caught in the flurry of a furious wind. The nurse yammers on about ‘meetings’ and ‘advanced notice’ and ‘consultation’, but Alana isn’t listening, especially as she turns a corner and her target comes into view.

She doesn’t bother to knock on the door. Instead, her right hand seizes the knob with a white-knuckle grip as her left hand slams open-palmed against the plaque reading D. SUTCLIFFE, M.D. – NEUROLOGY.

“Sutcliffe!” she growls as she throws the door open. “What is the meaning of-“

Alana is struck speechless by the sight before her. Sitting at his desk and glowering at her is Dr. Sutcliffe, but that’s not what’s knocked the air out of her lungs. There is a man sitting in one of Sutcliffe’s guest chairs, and he has turned his head toward the door to see who has rudely interrupted his meeting.

“Hannibal?” she murmurs in disbelief.

“I am so, _so_ sorry, Dr. Sutcliffe,” the tagalong nurse says over Alana’s stunned remark. “I chased her all the way from Graham’s room and tried to stop her, but she just-“

“I realize it’s not your fault, Nurse Applewhite. I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you, Dr. Bloom. As you can see, I am busy here. I realize you probably want to talk to me about your visit with Graham today, but you’ll need to reschedule. Nurse, please escort her-“

“If I may interject, I would like Dr. Bloom to join our meeting,” Hannibal Lecter says, turning back to Sutcliffe. He folds his hands together. “Our topic of conversation is incredibly relevant to her, after all. It would be rude to keep her in the dark.”

“As rude as her barging into my office like this?”

“Worse,” Hannibal says, pinning Sutcliffe with a piercing look. “One might assume that we are being secretive, and what a terrible misconception that would be. Dr. Bloom deserves honesty and full disclosure. Everyone in this room has the same goal in mind.” 

Sutcliffe gives a little scowl as if he had just bitten into something vaguely sour. He sighs, drums his fingers against his desk, and finally leans back against his chair. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing reluctantly to the free chair in front of him. “Dismissed, Nurse Applewhite.”

The nurse nods, giving a parting frown at the back of Alana’s head as she leaves.

Keeping her eyes on Hannibal, Alana sits. Before she can say anything, he looks at her with a small friendly smile. “It’s been a long time, Alana. I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

“Very much so,” she says as her eyes drift to Sutcliffe. The blue of her iris ices over as she glares at him. 

“Dr. Sutcliffe and I were residents at Johns Hopkins together,” Hannibal says, crossing his legs. “Our history together is long but pock-marked by the holes of absence people acquire when they no longer work in the same field. But I can’t say I’m here for a mere friendly chat.”

“Dr. Lecter is being as roundabout as ever. Seems like once again I’m the one who has to cut to the chase,” Sutcliffe says. “I’ve asked for his assistance with Will Graham. Now, will you be able to state your objections in an orderly manner, or would you like another door to break down?”

Alana narrows her eyes and straightens her back. Deep in the back of her mind, she feels faintly ridiculous for the subconscious prickle of goose bumps rising across her shoulders. Maybe it would be appropriate if she were a chimpanzee staring down a rival Alpha, but she’s a respected psychiatrist arguing with a Beta neurologist. The primal reflex feels ludicrous and antiquated beneath her silk blouse and professional blazer.

“I have no objections to bringing Dr. Lecter in to work with Will,” she says. 

Sutcliffe raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I once recommended Dr. Lecter to Special Agent Jack Crawford of the FBI in regards to keeping Will’s mind in check. Ultimately his services were not required there, but I stand by my glowing recommendation of his talents,” Alana says. She tilts her chin up. “In fact, bringing Hannibal in to help treat Will is the first truly good idea I’ve heard out of you so far.”

Sutcliffe opens his mouth to retort, but Hannibal raises his hand and interrupts. “Let’s keep this civil,” he says. “That being said, I know you would never say such a petty thing if you were not strongly impacted by something. You clearly came here to address a complaint to Dr. Sutcliffe, and as I may be working with him quite extensively, I would like to hear it.”

“I spoke with Will. He feels cut out of the information loop, like he’s being treated like an interesting science experiment rather than a scared and overwhelmed patient. He needs a strong line of communication, mostly so he can begin to process what to expect from his condition and how he can manage it.”

“And I wanted my own functioning Millennium Falcon when I was ten,” Sutcliffe interjects. “But unfortunately for Will Graham and my prepubescent self, reality doesn’t work like that. I can’t just give Graham answers that don’t yet exist, no more than I could drive a spaceship to little league practice. His condition has never been seen before in neurology or psychiatry. It’s completely undocumented.”

“Not officially, anyway,” Hannibal remarks. “And certainly not comprehensively.”

Sutcliffe’s eyes narrow at Hannibal. “You’ve seen this form of agnosia before?”

“Not personally, no,” Hannibal says. “However, when you described Mr. Graham’s condition to me earlier, I recalled some documents I read some years ago that reported similar symptoms.”

“Such a discovery would have been major news. I would have heard about this if it were published in any reputable medical journal,” Sutcliffe grumbles. “Not just psychiatric gossip.”

Hannibal frowns slightly. “Hardly gossip, Dr. Sutcliffe. But there are two very good reasons why you wouldn’t have heard of this. The first is that every scrap of information pertaining to the case is in Japanese; one must be either a native speaker or possess near-native fluency to understand the material. Secondly, there are some details that force one to take the information with a grain of salt. Most prominently being the fact that the young man in question only reported his symptoms after he no longer suffered from them.”

Alana’s eyes widen and her heart flutters in her chest. “The symptoms went away? There’s hope for recovery?”

Hannibal gives a slow, measured nod. “Yes. According to him, the symptoms began following a traumatic brain injury and corrective surgery, and later they went away seemingly at random.”

A thrill of hope and elation attempts to soar through Alana, but it doesn’t quite get the lift it needs to get off the ground. There’s something worrying about Hannibal’s expression. His eyes are cast down slightly, and there is a concerned and thoughtful furrow to his brow. Alana wants to snatch up the tentative little bubble of hope and protect it from the terrible blow that must be lurking in that worrisome expression.

“There’s something else to that story,” Alana says quietly. “What is it?”

Hannibal sighs. “The young man in question was not diagnosed with any form of unknown agnosia because his psychiatrists believe his symptoms were the result of an acute schizophrenic psychotic break. While he was compromised, he killed four people and performed cannibalism on at least one of the corpses.” 

Alana’s little bubble of hope never had a chance. She sits still for a moment, stunned by the story. When she finally finds her words, she hates the little quiver that has found its way into her voice. “That doesn’t mean that’s what’s happening with Will,” she whispers. “He was too lucid for psychosis when I spoke with him. His logical processes are sound, but the way his brain decodes sensory information has become scrambled.”

“For once, I agree with Dr. Bloom,” Sutcliffe says. “Dr. Lecter, your anecdote sounds unrelated to this matter, especially since there was never a chance to document the patient’s experience while his symptoms were present. All the more reason our treatment of Graham needs to be as thoroughly documented as possible. Not just for Graham himself, but for future people who may suffer the same rare complication.”

“You might not have definitive answers for his condition yet, but he needs to feel like you’re giving even the smallest attempt to actually cure him. Keep treating him like little more than a handy tool to document a new disorder and his depression will only get worse,” Alana says. Her hands ball into fists, and she feels the sharp sting of her nails digging into the flesh of her own palms. “There’s already heavily implied suicidal ideation in his words.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Sutcliffe says; the slight flippancy in his tone makes Alana’s knuckles go white. He nods at Hannibal. “And that’s why I’ve asked Dr. Lecter here to consult.”

“I’m hoping that, once I meet Mr. Graham, I will be able to create some coping mechanisms that may improve his condition,” Hannibal says. “And in order to do so, I’m afraid I may have to ask you to temporarily step back and reduce your presence in his life.” 

Alana frowns. “And your reasoning is…?”

“May I make an assumption?”

“Go ahead.”

“When you visited Mr. Graham today, was he reluctant to interact with you?”

Alana looks down at her hands. “Yes and no. He seemed relieved once he believed he was actually talking to me, but he was adamant about keeping his distance.”

“And that is my reasoning, Alana. You have a very strong personal and professional bond with Mr. Graham, and he does not wish to sully it with his warped perceptions. In contrast, Mr. Graham does not know me. He has no preconceptions about my appearance, my voice, my scent. There is no friendship to taint, no happy shared memories to spoil when he perceives me as a monster.”

Alana’s shoulders sink beneath the logical weight of his words.

“I’m not asking you to cut yourself out of his life entirely,” Hannibal says. “Merely to take the backseat for now on our long road to his recovery.” 

Alana nods. “I understand,” she says quietly. 

Hannibal stands, straightening his tie as he does so. Alana rises as well, distracted and troubled by the story of the Japanese man and how her own friendship with Will might be working against him. She follows Hannibal’s lead to Sutcliffe’s door, her mind elsewhere.

“And now we are all on the same page,” Hannibal says. “The only business remaining between Sutcliffe and I for now is to arrange a schedule for my future visits here. I’d hate to waste your time on something so trivial, Alana. However, I’d be most appreciative if you would join me for a dinner meeting shortly after I make Mr. Graham’s acquaintance. I think we could both benefit from exchanging notes on the subject.” 

Alana swallows and nods again, shaking away her concerns. She should focus on what a good match Hannibal is for Will’s recovery. If anyone can make a breakthrough and help her friend, it’s the impeccable and unflappable Dr. Lecter. She forces a small, hopeful smile on her lips. “Only if you break out that fancy beer again.”

Hannibal smiles. “Consider it done,” he says, extending his hand so he and Alana may shake on the arrangement. “I look forward to picking your brain on Will Graham.”

“Thank you, Hannibal. I’ll keep my schedule open,” she says as she opens the door to see herself out. She looks over at Sutcliffe, and all her friendliness and tentative relief hardens to stone. “Good day, Dr. Sutcliffe.”

The door shuts behind her, and for a few long moments neither Sutcliffe nor Hannibal say a word. Hannibal waits, listening keenly to the sound of Alana’s shoes as she departs. Once she is far enough away that not even he can detect her, he gives a satisfied little hum and returns to his seat. “And now, Dr. Sutcliffe, we may resume our conversation unencumbered,” he says.

Sutcliffe brings his hands together in a slow round of applause. “Well done. I thought she’d never leave,” he says.

“I suppose it’s difficult for Betas to understand, given how the media tends to sensationalize and stereotype all interactions between Alphas into bristling, animalistic rivalries, but more often than not civility is the most powerful tool an Alpha can possess,” Hannibal says. “It’s infinitely stronger than direct aggression or passive-aggressive sniping. It’s what separates mankind from the beasts, the ability to employ subjugation tactics beyond chest-beating bravado.” 

“One might argue that it’s made our species rather two-faced.”

“Two-faced?” Hannibal repeats. He chuckles. “One would be very simple indeed if he only possessed two faces. Humanity does not have a true face, merely smoke beneath a selection of a thousand masks. For example, you are not the same man when you interact with your wife as you are when you interact with a patient, or a professional colleague, or friends over a drunken poker game, or a homeless man begging on the street. The mask you wear for each occasion is different in one way or another. It does not make mankind two-faced; it makes the species multifaceted.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when handling Dr. Bloom from now on,” Sutcliffe says. He shrugs. “Might be a lost cause, though. She seems like the type to hold a grudge.”

Hannibal smiles. “I’ll put in a good word for you when we next meet. She may be sympathetic if I portray you as someone who becomes rather prickly when he is put under stress, and oh how much stress is churning through you on behalf of poor Will Graham. She may be convinced that her negative impression of you is hasty and incorrect.”

“Ha! If you really are capable of getting a psychiatrist to doubt her gut instincts, then I’ll know for a fact you were the right one to bring in for this,” Sutcliffe says. He sets his elbows on his desk and folds his hands together. “We can’t have Will Graham deciding to take the easy way out while there’s so much exciting new information to be gleaned from him. And convincing him to stick around in such a terrifying world may well require a great deal of your very convincing civility. And, perhaps, a little… unorthodox therapy.” 

“Right now, I imagine Mr. Graham is feeling particularly vulnerable. He has just met one of his dearest friends – perhaps the closest one of all – only to be reminded that he is currently incapable of interacting with her as he once did. He must be feeling terribly lonely, starved for connection, and lost in his labyrinth of lying perception,” Hannibal says. “Orthodox thinking would give him some time to collect himself emotionally before springing anything new on him.”

Sutcliffe grins, all shining teeth and ambition. “Well, then, let’s go say hello.”

\-----

_They won’t let me starve,_ Will thinks as he once again lies on his side, eyes shut to the disgusting world around him.

A smooth, dark slab lies on the floor, along with the putrid-smelling, rotten lumps of ambiguous matter that it had carried. The nurse had said the food was meatloaf, peas, a roll, and a serving of fruit medley. It had refused to leave until Will took a bite, and it had taken all of his willpower to bring the reeking filth to his lips. He managed to hold the foul substance in his mouth until the nurse seemed satisfied and slithered off to its next patient. As soon as it was gone, Will spat and gagged nearly to the point of dry heaving. Even after it was out of his mouth, the noxious flavor lingered on his tongue. He knocked the slab and its poisonous contents away shortly thereafter.

_They’ll have to feed me intravenously._

In his imagination, the intravenous needle they puncture into him is normal. Vivid though his imagination may be, he can’t begin to fathom what the needle would look and feel like according to his twisted senses. 

_And that will be my chance. Probably the only one they’ll give me. Make it count._

He grabs the needle embedded in the crook of his arm and rips it down. The vein tears under his own strength, and blood bubbles and spurts wildly out of the gaping hole in his flesh. 

His lips curl up in a smile. Once upon a time, that kind of vivid fantasy would horrify him. Now it’s his only comfort.

He isn’t left to relish the fantasy for very long. He hears the door open. “Ugh, not again,” the inhuman voice croaks. Will assumes it’s the nurse come to pick up the tray. “You have to eat, Graham.”

“Can’t,” Will says.

“You need to at least _try_.”

“Did. Compare dental records and bite evidence if you don't believe me.”

The voice gives an exasperated sigh that sounds like a granite slab sliding slowly off the top of a sarcophagus. “I’ll have the nurses come clean this up, if you don’t mind waiting,” it says, quite clearly not addressing Will. It is Sutcliffe, then, and he is not alone. “As you can see, he’s a challenge.”

“I find challenges rather appealing, to be honest. And no need to delay the introduction; the nurses can come later.”

Will’s eyes snap open in shock and his breath catches in his throat. The unfamiliar voice is different from the same hideous voice he’s heard out of everyone who has spoken to him over the past few days. It is deep, possesses a rich timbre, is colored with a heavy accent Will cannot immediately place, and – above all else, the thing that sends Will’s heart hammering in his chest – it is unquestionably human. 

But the wall Will finds himself staring at is still filthy and stained red. His bed is still a nightmare. He puts all his focus into listening. Perhaps his perception of sound has spontaneously repaired itself as soon as the man spoke. That idea is quickly dashed.

“Graham, I want to introduce you to a long-time colleague of mine, Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” Sutcliffe says. His voice is as warped as it’s always been. “He’s a well-known psychiatrist and comes with Dr. Alana Bloom’s seal of approval, if that helps convince you in any way. We’re hoping he’ll be able to assist in your treatment.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Graham,” Lecter says. 

His unmistakably human voice is simultaneously confounding and soothing. If it’s his real voice, perhaps Will can extrapolate what he might look like. Will dives deep into his own imagination. He lets Dr. Lecter’s voice wash over him as he listens to the man speaking. He soaks in the sound like the roots of a thirsty plant wringing every drop of moisture out of the surrounding soil.

“Although I am a psychiatrist, you may rest assured that I will not be negatively psychoanalyzing you.”

As the voice is all he has, Will’s imagination begins with the vocal chords. How long and thick would they need to be to produce such a sound? He sees the muscle, tissue, and sinew in his head, and he steadily adds layers of flesh as he grows more confident with the mechanics of the man’s voice.

“Rather, it is my desire to help you build effective coping mechanisms so you may thrive until you are fully healed.”

Though he can’t pinpoint it exactly, the accent is definitely European. Not a relatively well-known and broad one like French, German, or Italian, however. Most likely northern or eastern European, but Will’s not confident enough with the guess to be absolutely sure. He toggles through a variety of heights and skin tones prevalent among European nationals, eventually settling on a height that’s slightly taller than average and Caucasian skin that is neither fair nor dark. He realizes he could be very far off the mark there and that it’s patently ridiculous to assume skin color based on an accent in such an increasingly globalized and immigration-reliant world, but the color stays on his mental projection regardless.

“Dr. Sutcliffe, may I have a few moments with Mr. Graham alone? I think it may be necessary to help build his trust.” 

A bit on the older side, Will thinks. A bit of grey in the hair. Some lines around the eyes. But well maintained and well groomed. An appreciation for the finer things in life, including well-tailored clothing and expensive, polished shoes.

Shoes which he hears move across the floor instead of the clacking, the scratching, the shambling, the moist sloshing or terrible crawling noises he’s heard whenever anyone else has moved near him. 

“Of course,” Sutcliffe croaks. “Take all the time you need.”

And then they are alone.

Will hears Dr. Lecter move closer, close enough that he can scent him. It begins with a small inhalation, but Will loses his control over his lungs when the strong, spicy scent of an Alpha male hits his nostrils. He gasps, sucking in the pheromone-infused air like a man trapped in an ever-shrinking air bubble beneath a capsized ship. For a few seconds, he’s terrified that this means his suppressants are failing him like everything else in his miserable brain and body has failed him, but the truth of the situation sinks in. He’s spent so many days smelling the invariably musty, foul odors of the doctors and nurses that he has become starved for human scent. 

“Dr. Sutcliffe has informed me that you’re experiencing an unusual form of agnosia. The first step in the healing process is to come to terms with that. You must be open and honest with yourself, Mr. Graham. Instead of flinching away and avoiding the horrific sensory information assailing you, you must confront them all head on,” Lecter says. “So I would like you to turn around, look at me, and describe the horrific beast your perception has tricked you into seeing. We should start by trying to detect patterns in your perceptions.” 

“No,” Will whispers to the man in his imagination. “I don’t…”

Lecter frowns. “Please, Mr. Graham. I want to help you see beauty in the world again.”

Will’s heart pounds against his ribcage so hard he wonders if it will successfully make a break for it and spill messily across the floor. His breaths are little more than shallow gasps. The skin all up and down his spine feels clammy and prickled with poorly-contained anxiety. Cold sweat breaks out on his forehead, sticking the curls of his hair together. And yet he moves. Slowly, he turns. Slowly, he opens his eyes. Quickly, his pupils dilate.

“Well, Mr. Graham? What do I look like to you?” Lecter says. 

Will feels tears form in the corners of his eyes and slide down his cheeks as he stares unblinking at the man before him. He is shockingly similar to the projection Will had conjured up in his imagination, but so infinitely superior for actually being real. Surrounded by the terrifying sights Will has seen since he first opened his eyes to them a few days ago, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is the sole exception.

“Human,” Will sobs.

A tiny flash of surprise flits across Hannibal’s features, but then a gleam of understanding settles deep in his maroon eyes. He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos help to inspire me, so please consider chiming in if there's anything you'd like to say!
> 
> And don't worry; I'm not just glossing over the differences between this AU and the content of the series. How and why things are different will definitely be addressed over the course of this story. I just didn't want a massive irritating info dump in the first chapter when I could integrate the information throughout.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter: blood, violence including stuff with needles, the food (and other things) being people, and - foulest of all - Hannibal's incredibly terrible secret murder jokes.
> 
> And here comes the first batch of some much-needed exposition to illustrate why this is so AU. But what you get in here isn't even close to being the most AUey AU aspect of this, as I'm sure some people are suspecting.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!

“How?” Will croaks as he stares at the man before him. “How are you… you?”

“Unfortunately, as this is the first time we have met, neither of us can be certain that the ‘me’ you are perceiving really is my true self,” Hannibal says. “Though the fact that you see me as human is certainly encouraging.” 

“You’re in your early-to-mid-forties and have impeccably combed ash blond hair,” Will says in a rush as he hurriedly wipes away the wet lines the tears have left behind on his cheeks. “Your eyes are dark brown with a ruddy tint I’ve never seen before. Caucasian European, strong eastern or northern accent implies that English is not your first language. Probably learned it in your teenage years. You are wearing a charcoal grey suit with a blue and yellow paisley tie. Fine Italian silk. Male, Alpha, unbonded. How much of that is accurate?”

Hannibal regards Will quietly for a moment. His face is stoic, and Will finds himself struggling to read much into his expression. Before, his mind would buzz and hiss with the clanging noise and confusion of all the terrible personal information he could glean from a single look. Hannibal Lecter, in contrast, is pure silence. He knows a lot of that must be the years and years of psychiatric practice, and Will has some experience with guarded psychiatry. After all, Alana could become tough to read if it suited her. But Alana Bloom is an open book covered in highlighter marks and bold, underlined red ink compared to this man.

“I’m older than I look, thanks to the benefit of excellent genes and a little self-care. But otherwise, your description is perfect,” Hannibal finally says. “Perhaps ‘encouraging’ is not strong enough a word.”

“Why?” Will asks. “Why are you the only one who’s normal?”

“The human mind is the most complex, confounding, and captivating construct on earth. So complicated that the mind itself cannot even begin to know all its intricacies,” Hannibal says. “Each person’s experience is a unique world stitched together from the scraps of information the brain interprets via the senses. It’s entirely possible that we may never fully understand its quilting technique.”

Will sighs heavily and his eyes flutter shut in disappointment. His eyes sting slightly; the welcome sight of another human being had subconsciously kept him from blinking. Or, perhaps, it was a latent fear that he’d blink and suddenly Hannibal would be twisted into one of the creatures like everyone else. That his ruined brain would catch and correct its benevolent mistake. “So you don’t know,” he says.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Hannibal replies. “At least, not yet. But together, perhaps we will find the answer. In fact, I feel we should waste no time with the first experiment.”

Will’s tired eyes open again to see Hannibal looking down at the weeds sprouting out from the top of the strange, misshapen lump by his bed. “Experiment?”

Hannibal reaches out, plucking one of the twisted weeds. Though Will’s rational mind tells him that all the sharp, jagged thorns covering the thing can’t possibly exist, his stomach still twists with dread as Hannibal’s fingers curl around the saw-like points. The Alpha shuts his eyes for a moment, apparently concentrating on the feel of the plant in his hand. When his eyes open again, he pins Will with an intense look. “What do I look like to you now?”

Will frowns. “What do you mean? Nothing’s changed.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk slightly. “I see,” he says. He shuts his eyes again and continues, “I thought, perhaps, if I held an item that it might be imbued with whatever grace is preventing your brain from seeing me as a monster. Capricious, perhaps, but many discoveries have been made under even greater bouts of whimsy.”

“No, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? My life just doesn’t _allow_ easy solutions,” Will says, scowling. “On the rare occasions that it allows solutions at all.”

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal says. He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. “If I may call you Will, that is. ‘Mr. Graham’ is quite impersonal.”

“Don’t care what you call me,” Will says. “’Mr. Graham’ makes me feel old, anyway. Or like some kind of graham cracker-themed ice cream cake.”

Hannibal gives a small smile as he brings the gnarled plant up to his nose and seems to savor its fragrance for a moment. “Do you know who sent you the flower arrangement? I don’t see a well-wishing card.”

“I didn’t ask, so nobody told,” Will says. He gives the hideous weeds a side-long glance. “I don't even need all the fingers on one hand to count all the people on the planet who care enough about me to send anything like that, so at least the list of candidates is short. Does it matter who sent it?”

“Not particularly. I’m merely curious if the message they have sent is intentional or an eerie coincidence.”

Will frowns. “Message?”

“How much do you know about the language of flowers?”

“You mean flower symbolism? Not much off the top of my head besides what’s so widely known that it’s inescapable in culture at large. Red roses for love. Forget-me-nots, named so very conveniently. And maybe one or two half-remembered lectures from high school literature classes,” Will says. He raises his hand, passing out invisible flowers with a light and airy touch. When he continues speaking, he pitches his voice up an octave and uses an English accent. “’There’s fennel for you, and columbines.’”

“Ophelia using a mask of madness and gifts of flowers to secretly call the King a flattery-obsessed adulterer,” Hannibal says. “Precisely what I mean. By selecting plants with certain hidden meanings, those who are privy to the code can send each other – or unwitting targets – very elaborate messages.”

“And what message lies trapped in all those knotted vines and piercing thorns, Dr. Lecter?”

“Rhododendron: danger,” Hannibal says as his free hand reaches out to caress one of the plants.

“Snakeroot: horror.” His fingers glide over another cluster.

He holds up the plant he originally plucked from the display. “And amaranthus, also known as love-lies-bleeding: hopelessness.”

“I guess some people get cheery get well cards with adorable cartoon bunnies bandaging their friends and I get a grim reminder of my condition in the form of floral passive-aggression,” Will mutters. “Sounds about par.”

“It’s not merely the plants themselves that convey the message. The way they are arranged is the key to proper presentation and interpretation,” Hannibal says. “With the rhododendrons in the center of the display, surrounded by the clusters of snakeroot and partially-shrouded beneath the drooping scarlet tassels of the love-lies-bleeding, the display may be read as _Danger lies in horror and hopelessness_.”

“Well, that’s…” Will’s face scrunches up with incredulity and confusion as he struggles to put a word to what he’s feeling. It doesn’t take him long to realize there isn’t one. “Apt.”

“Unfortunately, if we do not know who is behind the display, we cannot know their motivation,” Hannibal says.

“If my mind was working right, I could,” Will grumbles. He glares at the weeds, disgust and fury simmering in his stomach. “I could look at those things and imagine what was going through the head of whoever designed the display. Whether or not it was an accident or purposeful.” 

“Ah, yes, your reputation precedes you. The infamous gift of imagination,” Hannibal says. Will snorts derisively, and Hannibal raises an eyebrow in curiosity at the sound. “You do not see it as such?”

“Hardly,” Will hisses. “Like you said – my reputation drags me along like it’s a fat farmer and I’m a beaten old mule on a rope. You’ve never even met me before today and you seem to know all about it. I know I’m the subject of lots and lots of chatter when the abnormal psychiatry circles gather for some really good gossip. I bet some of them even think I’m just an urban legend or some kind of cryptid.”

His hand clenches into a fist against his bed, and he recoils when he realizes he’s accidentally grabbed part of the clammy membrane attached to his mattress. He tosses it away, shuddering. The stuttering sound changes as a bitter laugh claws its way out of his throat. He brings his hand up to cover his eyes. “I always wanted it to just go away. Like I’d wake up one morning, hazy and heavy with dissipating sleep, to discover that it was all a long dream. That I would just stop being able to see what evil sees and feel what evil feels. That I would be someone else. If I knew this was the trade-off, maybe I wouldn’t have been so cavalier with that wish.”

“Perhaps you will learn to think otherwise about your gift,” Hannibal says. “For it truly is a gift. I expect your incredibly fertile mind will prove immensely beneficial for your recovery, though it may be hard to believe it now.”

Will slides his hand down his face and it lands with a soft thump against his sternum. His tired eyes return to Hannibal, drawn like moths to a candle in the dark. “So, what, have hope?”

Hannibal smiles. “What am I, if not a sign that there is still hope for you?”

Will isn’t sure what to say to that, so he simply watches as Hannibal regards the arrangement of weeds.

“In fact,” the Alpha says. “Perhaps I should take the love-lies-bleeding off of your hands. If they are a symbol of hopelessness, they have no place in your life now, do they? If you have no objections, of course.”

“Take the whole damn thing,” Will says, waving dismissively at the plants. “Even if whoever sent it to me had their heart in the right place, and the fact that there’s an ‘if’ involved in this situation is very telling, there is nothing in it to inspire peace or gratitude in me.” 

Hannibal reaches for the weeds. To Will’s disgust, the act of picking up the vase from the table looks like a chunk being pulled away from the fleshy bulge. Flimsy sinews and strings of mucous stretch and easily sever as the vase-lump separates from the table-lump. Will scowls, his stomach in knots at the sight.

“In that case, I will take my leave for now. Our next meeting will be Friday, as I’ll need a few days to prepare some potential coping exercises for you to try. But above all else, I’m immensely pleased to have made your acquaintance today, Will,” Hannibal says. He looks down, frowning slightly at the food spilled across the floor. “In the meantime, please do your best to eat what the hospital provides you. You will need your strength.”

“Everything they’ve brought me tastes rotten. What little I’ve managed to swallow burns and stings all the way down. I haven’t really eaten properly since I woke up almost three days ago,” Will says. He looks down at his arm, eyes settling on the dark blue vein. The thought of ripping it open with the IV needle is still faintly tempting, but not as strong as it was before Hannibal – whole and human – stepped into his nightmarish world. “I know I can’t go like this much longer before they hook me back up to a drip like they did while I was comatose.” 

“Cooking is one of my passions. Perhaps once your therapy begins in earnest and I have a more intimate understanding of your condition, I can see if I’m up to the task of creating palatable meals for you. I’ll embrace the challenge whole-heartedly,” Hannibal says. 

He steps closer to Will. “There is just one thing I ask of you if you can’t muster the strength to face solid food.”

“What’s that?” Will asks distantly, still looking at his own arm.

With his free hand, Hannibal reaches out. He gently sets his hand on Will’s arm, his thumb over the vein. Will startles, jerking his head up to look at Hannibal with widened eyes. The Alpha’s touch is warm and reassuring, and the feel of his skin doesn’t inspire immediate revulsion or horror the way the touch of the doctors and nurses does. Leaning over him like this, Hannibal’s scent is even stronger; it takes Will all of his control to keep from inhaling greedily. He lowers his head and looks away, feeling a small, shocking glimmer of the same intense, nauseous embarrassment and hyper-self-consciousness that kicks down his mental doors and makes itself at home whenever he realizes an attractive Alpha has noticed that he even exists.

“Don’t do anything rash, Will,” Hannibal says quietly. He moves his thumb slightly, applying just a hint of pressure against the vein. “No matter how alluring an option it may be.”

Will shrugs, pulling his arm away from Hannibal’s touch. The memory of it lingers over his skin, sensitive and tingling but not unpleasantly so. He had always been fairly touch-averse thanks to his winning combination of social awkwardness and the overload of information such touches often left in their wake. If eye contact was difficult due to the laundry list of associations it imparted in him, then a warm hand on the shoulder and a friendly invasion of personal space was a thousand-page, tragic Russian novel’s worth of associations.

He nods once sheepishly, not trusting his brain to come up with anything worth saying nor his tongue’s ability to actually say it.

“Good,” Hannibal says softly, his tone deep and silken. He walks over to the door. “I’ll see you soon.”

And with that, he leaves the Omega to his warped world and his own confused thoughts.

Sutcliffe is waiting for him in the hall, standing casually beside Will’s door. As Hannibal’s burgundy-colored eyes scan over Sutcliffe’s posture and his proximity to the door, he wonders if it’s perhaps a bit too casual. “Were you listening in on my conversation with Will?” he asks.

“Even if I were, the acoustics of the room and hallway make such a thing impossible,” Sutcliffe responds as he ushers them further down the hall, away from Will’s door. “Emphasis on the ‘if’. But that’s not what’s important now. Calling him Will already? Shall I take that as a good sign?”

The skepticism drains from Hannibal’s face as a small, slow smile creeps across his lips. “The best sign of all, I think. I feel I owe you a particularly spectacular birthday or Christmas present for introducing me to him,” Hannibal says. “I’m confident that I can be a great help to Will. And certainly vice-versa. There’s much to learn about him.”

Sutcliffe grins. “Well, then I’m glad to have played the merry match-maker in the name of psychiatric and neurological science.” 

“I’d like my next appointment with him to be on Friday. From then on, I feel seeing him twice a week at a minimum would be beneficial. Perhaps Mondays and Fridays?”

“Keep him from offing himself before I can detail his disorder and publish my findings, and I don’t care how often you see him. Pay him a visit every day if that’s what it takes,” Sutcliffe says, waving his hand dismissively. 

Hannibal hums thoughtfully at that. He looks down at the vase and flower display in his left hand. “These flowers were proving a negative distraction for him, so I’ve taken them off his hands. Do you happen to know who sent them to him?” he asks. 

“I don’t keep track of that stuff,” Sutcliffe says. “Besides you, his only visitor has been Bloom, and that’s only because she hasn’t given the hospital a moment’s peace since he woke up.”

“It wasn’t her,” Hannibal says as he twists a snakeroot petal between his thumb and forefinger. Though still vibrant and beautiful, they are dead all the same. He can feel their slow slide into decay beneath the ridges of his fingerprints. “These flowers were cut two days ago.” 

“Come to think of it, you’re right. I saw them on his table yesterday when he refused to eat dinner. One of the orderlies probably brought it to him out of pity that morning, then. A couple of them do that sometimes with certain patients.”

“Do they?” Hannibal murmurs. 

“I can get Nurse Applewhite to ask around if it’s important.”

“No, no. Simple curiosity,” Hannibal says. “Whoever they are, they have an eye for arrangement. It’s inspired me to bring Will something of my own design when next we meet.”

True to his word, Hannibal calls his favorite florist from the hospital parking lot. His lips curl into a smile when they tell him that they have just what he needs in stock.

\-----

It’s careful work maneuvering the living amaryllis out of the backseat of Hannibal’s expensive car. The stalk is long and delicate and its five burgeoning flower buds could easily bruise and wither. It sways gently as Hannibal walks from his driveway to his front door, the potted amaryllis in his right hand and the arrangement from Will’s hospital room in his left.

Once inside, Hannibal sets the arrangement on his kitchen counter. He quickly continues on, carrying the amaryllis down the steps leading to his basement. The room maintains a consistent cool temperature and he can easily control how much light the plant will receive here. Without turning on the light, he makes his way to the ideal spot for the potted plant. He sets it down on a table, adjusting its spot by fractions of centimeters until it is perfect. His night vision is powerful enough that he doesn’t need light to make his preparations.

But once the plant is settled, he strides over and flips the switch. He may not need the light, but it would be rude to deprive his guest the benefit of seeing.

The lights flicker to life, revealing a nude Alpha man shackled to a metal table. He is apparently unconscious, his head lolled off to one side. Around the shackles at his wrists, upper arms, thighs, and ankles, his pale skin is dark pink with the purplish tinge of forthcoming bruises. The color of struggle. The amaryllis is centimeters away from the man’s head, its stalk casting a long, thin shadow over his face. 

The man gives a low, formless moan as his eyes flutter open in the sudden light. The sound tapers off quickly, however, with a wince of pain and misery.

“Don’t like the sound of your own voice, Mr. Malfont?” Hannibal asks as he unlocks a nearby chest. He removes a large syringe with a thick hypodermic needle at the end. “You seemed rather fond of it when you were cat-calling that Omega boy shortly before I got my hands on you.”

He strides over to the prone man. “Just so we are clear, your predilection for Catholic school uniforms on underage flesh is not why you are here. Though, had you been less liberal with your lascivious taunts, I might not have been inspired to find a more productive use for your tongue.”

Malfont moans again, thick and senseless.

“No, Mr. Malfont, you will be found in the passenger seat of your car blocking both lanes of the street where you cut me off in rush hour,” Hannibal says. He reaches down, softly running his thumbnail across Malfont’s waist. “Rather cut-off yourself.”

It must be enough to send another rush of adrenaline surging through the captured Alpha’s veins, for he lets out a desperate guttural shout that might have been an attempt at profanity and thrashes at his restraints again. Hannibal watches him flail with cool indifference, not blinking once as he stares at the short-lived burst of furious, terrified energy. 

“As I was saying,” Hannibal says once Malfont collapses against the table, breathing heavily. “You should actually feel blessed, Mr. Malfont. I was simply going to dispose of your lower half, but something magnificent has come up. You’ll get to play a part in something spectacular.”

He jabs the syringe into the soft flesh of Malfont’s upper thigh, hitting the femoral artery. Malfont groans weakly as the tube fills with blood, which shows no sign of slowing once Hannibal pulls the needle out. 

Hannibal holds the syringe over the amaryllis’ soil, slowly pushing on the plunger and watching as drop after drop of the blood falls from the tip. The soil soaks it all up hungrily. 

Once every drop has been pushed out of the syringe, he turns back to Malfont. The man’s thighs and legs are already a mess with spilling blood. Hannibal rests his hand on Malfont’s knee, giving it a reassuring pat. “Yes, Mr. Malfont, you have blundered your way into something far greater. Next, a practical lesson on how to make bone meal. Do pay attention.” 

Hours later, Hannibal returns to his kitchen carrying a plastic storage container. He rearranges a few things in his refrigerator, placing the new item on one of the lower shelves. He then turns to the flower arrangement sitting on his counter. He plucks one of the tendrils of love-lies-bleeding and regards it thoughtfully, a small smile on his lips. He shuts his eyes indulgently, holding the plant just beneath his nose. 

Amaranthus tassels do not possess much in the way of pleasing floral odors, so it is not its own perfume that Hannibal enjoys. Rather, it is something that the plant has absorbed. With its many little nooks and crannies in its red bunches, it can be adept at capturing scents in close proximity. The scent of Will Graham is still trapped within it. With Hannibal’s keen sense of smell, it is almost as good as ghosting his nose over the skin across Will’s collarbone and up the curve of his neck. 

Almost.

With a long, rumbling sigh, Hannibal opens his eyes. He keeps the love-lies-bleeding in hand as he reaches for his landline’s kitchen phone. He dials the numbers quickly, brings the handset up to his ear, and waits.

“Good evening, Alana,” he says after a few seconds. “I’m calling to follow-up on Will Graham. Dr. Sutcliffe proved to be quite impatient and had me meet him shortly after you left us.”

He is silent for a moment, listening to her irate response. He smirks a little. “Now, are you still amenable to a discussion of the matter over dinner? Excellent. How does menudo and tacos de lengua sound? I feel like cooking something with a south of the border flair, and it just so happens I have some very fresh beef tongue and tripe.” 

He smiles as he listens to Alana’s reply. “Yes, tomorrow at 8 o’clock sounds perfect. I’m looking forward to it.”

\-----

Alana Bloom mutters a steady stream of curses under her breath as she pulls her car up Hannibal’s driveway. The neon green clock on her dashboard reads 8:38 before she yanks the key out of the ignition and all the electronics go dark. She hurls her keys into her purse, not even bothering to hit the lock button in her haste.

She rushes up to the door and presses the doorbell, panting to catch her breath. She barely has enough time to compose herself before the door opens, revealing Hannibal with a bemused expression on his face.

“Alana,” he says, stepping aside and inviting her in. “I was beginning to be concerned that something had happened.”

“God, I’m so sorry I’m late,” Alana says sheepishly as she enters, removing her coat. “I was caught in traffic. Some kind of obstruction on the road, I guess. It took the police ages to work out a detour. I might’ve given my steering column shaken wheel syndrome in my frustration.”

“What a shame,” Hannibal says. “But it’s hardly something you could control. Let’s just hope nobody was hurt.”

Alana winces slightly, her shoulders sagging a little. “Kind of puts my tardiness-inspired hissy fit in a bit of an unflattering light if so,” she says. 

“It was most likely little more than an inconvenient fender-bender,” Hannibal says as they make their way to his kitchen. “Far too many people only pay half-attention when they are on the road.”

They spend the next few minutes preparing the dinner table. Though Hannibal insists that, as a guest, Alana should sit and allow him to be a dutiful host, she demands she assist to make up for her late arrival. As Hannibal had already set out the plates, silverware, and napkins, the meal preparations don’t take long. It’s merely a matter of warming the food. 

Alana sits once she sets out the bowls of menudo. “Will the reheating compromise the food in any way?” she asks. “I know you can be quite the stickler for how your dishes turn out.”

Hannibal smiles as he sets a large, frothy glass of beer in front of her. “Your beer, as promised,” he says. He takes his own seat, setting down a glass of wine for himself. “And as for your question, in this case it may be a bit of divine providence that you were a little late. Allowing certain foods to cool slightly before reheating can enhance spiciness.”

He dips his spoon into the menudo and brings it to his lips. “With this flavor, I’d say you were right on time,” he says.

Alana laughs, reassured. Her laughter soon fades, and she takes a sip of the beer for a shot of liquid courage. “So… what did you think of Will?”

“He is truly remarkable,” Hannibal says, his eyes lingering on the single tassel of love-lies-bleeding that he has hidden in the table’s centerpiece. “May I ask how you met him yourself?”

Alana hums slightly. “It would’ve been almost three years ago,” she says. “I’d been consulting on certain cases for Quantico for a little while, and Will had recently been hired at the Academy as a lecturer. There was a mixer, and someone must have strong-armed him into going because he was trying desperately to hide behind a decorative ficus without actually looking like he was hiding. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it.” 

“I’d already heard the rumors about him at that point – instability and Autism spectrum or other social-development disorder stuff, mostly. But I figured there was no harm in introducing myself. We talked a little. Well, mostly I talked a little and he hesitantly answered. He never made eye-contact with me, but he eventually figured out I’d had to put down my thirteen-year-old dog, Butterscotch, three weeks prior. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. I went out of my way to be kind to him after that, and he slowly warmed up to me.”

“It’s a shame I didn’t get to meet him in such favorable circumstances,” Hannibal says.

“About that,” Alana says. “I want to apologize for wasting some of your time all those months ago. It must have looked very indecisive of me to recommend you to Jack Crawford in order to help Will only for me to change my mind before you two could even meet.”

“I’m sure there were mitigating circumstances,” Hannibal says, waving a hand as if brushing aside Alana’s apology. “But may I ask what they were?”

Alana clears her throat. “Do you remember the case in question?”

“A series of missing Omega girls in Minnesota, was it not?”

“Right. Garret Jacob Hobbs. Jack wanted to take Will out into the field as a consultant to deal with it, but there were fairly reasonable concerns about his stability. He hadn’t made the field work cut before because of it. At first, Jack wanted me to be Will’s psychological tether. Keep him grounded. Keep him sane enough to work.”

“But you found the suggestion distasteful.”

Alana nods. “I didn’t want to do anything that would betray or jeopardize Will’s trust and friendship. “

Hannibal brings his wine up to his lips, scenting it first and then allowing the sweet flavor to linger on his palate. “I’m sure the fact that he’s an attractive, eligible Omega had nothing to do with that decision.”

“None whatsoever,” Alana says icily, narrowing her eyes slightly at Hannibal. “I happen to believe Alphas and Omegas _can_ be friends because I live in the 21st century and got all the pathetic locker-room objectification talk and knot-measuring contests out of my system in high school.” 

“It wasn’t my intention to offend or insinuate anything unseemly with that statement. Merely sardonically echoing many rude comments I’m sure you’ve encountered while working with Will. I apologize for the interruption. Please continue.”

The tension drains out of Alana’s shoulders, but a small frown in her brow lingers. “Before the psychiatrist situation could even be fully resolved, Jack took Will to Minnesota. They found Hobbs’ final victim, Elise Nichols, lovingly returned to her bed. It didn’t take long for Will to realize she was a… flawed design, as he would put it. A failure in the procedures. It was enough for Will to come to the conclusion that the girls were victims of a twisted sort of obsessive love, and that they were being cannibalized. A good lead, but it probably wouldn’t have been enough on its own. That’s around when I recommended you to Jack. But the day before he could introduce you to Will, the case took a wild turn. The murderer’s daughter came forward to the police.”

“Ah, yes, Abigail Hobbs,” Hannibal says. “I recall her wide-eyed, haunted expression being inescapable on nearly every news outlet.”

“It was incredibly brave, what Abigail did,” Alana says. “Admitting to the world that she knew her father was connected to the missing girls. Knowing she was the source of his obsession and twisted actions. It’s a lot to come out about. Because Elise Nichols couldn’t be used the way the other girls could, Abigail knew that girl’s death wouldn’t be enough to satisfy her father’s rituals. When it became clear her father needed someone even closer to Abigail than a physical proxy, she knew it was going to be her schoolmate Marissa Schurr.”

“The girl she loved,” Hannibal notes. “How did she put it in one of those interviews? ‘I always admired Marissa’s fearlessness. How she would say what she needed to say no matter the consequences. And I knew the only way I could save her would be to do the same.’”

Alana sighs. “Like I said, it took a lot of courage to come out in so many ways when she chose to go to the police that day, knowing what she had to say would make quite a few people judge and revile her for multiple reasons.”

“She kept her silence to protect herself and her family, but had to reconsider the moment the needs of a romantic love rivaled those of a familial one,” Hannibal muses. “I suppose the heart won out over the blood it pumps.” 

“I suppose so,” Alana says quietly. “Anyway, in the resulting chaos of closing that case, I thought long and hard about the situation with Will. His profiling work over Elise Nichols’ corpse was enough to convert Jack’s curiosity to full-blown attention. I knew Jack would want him out in the field again, and a flat ‘no’ was no longer an option. I once told Jack that any psychological studies about Will Graham would have to be published posthumously. And ultimately, it occurred to me that I could only trust myself to stick to that. No offense. But Pandora’s Box had been opened; the only thing I could do was do all I could to keep the one thing left inside it alive.”

“Hope,” Hannibal says.

Alana nods, a sad, self-deprecating little smile curling up one side of her lips. “Now, though, I wonder if I made a mistake. Maybe I should have stuck with my initial call to bring you in. Maybe I was too close to notice how sick he was getting. Maybe you would have seen the signs of his encephalitis sooner.”

“Regret is an unflattering shade on anyone, Alana,” Hannibal says. “You did what you thought was best for Will. And now, it is my turn to do my best for him. Though now that two separate colleagues have recommended that I help Will Graham, it’s tempting to wonder if we were always destined to meet.”

He holds up his wineglass in a toast. “To fate and Will Graham.”

Alana laughs and shrugs. She holds up her half-drained glass of beer. “Sure, I’ll drink to that.”

Their glasses clink together.

\-----

On Friday at 3 AM, the amaryllis flowers finally finish opening. Hannibal has been watching them unfurl for roughly nine hours, completely rapt.

He locates the most perfect flower and gently cradles the petals with his left hand while his right slices the stem with a linoleum knife.

\-----

Two days have passed since Will Graham met Hannibal Lecter, and he can’t seem to stop thinking about the Alpha. He picks at the memory of their meeting like it is itchy, peeling sunburnt skin, as if doing so will reveal something raw, sensitive, and new beneath. He has cast out countless lines in an attempt to reel in any kind of explanation for Lecter being immune to the ravages of his sensory disorder, but his hook always comes back empty.

He’s taken Lecter’s advice, though, and has made more of an effort to eat the food the hospital provides him. It still tastes and feels as vile as ever, but he’s slowly training himself to choke down more of it. At this point, he’s still only capable of swallowing about a third of whatever is set in front of him before the disgust gets too strong to ignore. He’s caught in a vicious cycle of profound hunger and complete revulsion.

The remains of his breakfast – an odd gruel with the consistency of bayou mud and the sharp, sickly sweet smell of fruit in full decomposition – sits on his obsidian serving tray. He sets it on the scabby top of his bedside table. He’s stopped hurling the trays to the floor like a toddler in a fit of pique, but only because of his attempts to heed Lecter’s advice.

He hears the thumps of something knocking at his door and Will’s eyes shut automatically. 

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal says as he enters. “I see you’ve managed to eat some of your breakfast. Has it become easier to manage?”

Will laughs bitterly, turning his head to the welcome sound of the comforting voice. He slowly cracks his eyes open as he speaks. “I don’t think forcing myself counts as-“

His eyes fly open wide, a stuttering gasp clawing its way out of his throat and stunning him to silence.

Hannibal stands in front of him, looking as sophisticated and composed and blessedly human as before, but now he is not the only thing spared by Will’s twisted senses. He holds a fleshy lump not unlike the thing that had separated from Will’s table when Hannibal took the weedy arrangement off his hands a few days ago. There are clumps of gnarled, thorny plants sticking out of it, but in the very center sits a beautiful, flawless flower.

Hannibal notes Will’s transfixed expression, following his line of sight to the flower. He steps closer. “Do you see the flowers, Will?” he asks.

“Yes,” Will croaks, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the plant. The petals are soft and delicate beneath his fingers. They’re white with dark red spreading out from the center where the stamens beckon to the pollinators of the world. The color combination looks not unlike blood spreading from a wound beneath a white shirt. Despite the morbid association, it’s one of the most beautiful things Will has ever seen. “But only this one. The others are still horrors.”

“Though I didn’t grow it from a bulb, I did care for it for several days and helped nurture its buds to open,” Hannibal says. “Perhaps that’s the key.”

“What is it?” Will asks, still feeling the silk of the petals. “And what does it mean in that flower language you were talking about?”

“Amaryllis. It stands for ‘splendid beauty’,” Hannibal says. He gestures to the weedy plants surrounding it. “Everlasting peas for ‘an appointed meeting’ and rosemary for ‘remembrance’. Mingled together and surrounding the amaryllis, the message is: ‘Through our appointments, you shall remember splendid beauty’. I did tell you that it is my goal to help you see beauty in the world again; I just didn’t expect it would begin so soon.”

“Thank you,” Will whispers as Hannibal places the arrangement on the table. 

Hannibal smiles. “It’s my pleasure, Will,” he says. He offers his hand to help Will stand from where he is sitting in his hospital bed. “Now, Dr. Sutcliffe is waiting outside. He informed me that you’re due for an MRI appointment. Shall I help escort you there before we begin our session?”

His fingers still trembling with the memory of feeling something smooth and soft in a world of grit and slime and stinging, Will reaches out and accepts Hannibal’s hand.

\-----

Ten minutes after Will, Hannibal, and Sutcliffe left for the MRI suite, an orderly pushes a cart of clean linens down the corridor. He stops in front of Will’s room, noting the signature and stamp on the timesheet attached to the door that indicates the patient is elsewhere. He grabs fresh sheets from his cart and pushes into the empty room.

He wants to see if Will is continuing to slowly make progress when it comes to eating his meals. He wants to clean the room so everything is extra spotless for him. He wants to bring his old pillowcase up to his nose and breathe in deep when he replaces the bed linens.

But the first thing he sees are the new flowers sitting in a dark sapphire blue vase on the bedside table.

Wild tansies. Rocket flowers. A single, perfectly formed amaryllis in the center of the arrangement.

_I declare war against you: we are rivals for this splendid beauty._

Matthew Brown’s blood boils beneath his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amaryllis in this chapter is the 'Temptation' cultivar. You can see an example [here](http://davesgarden.com/guides/pf/showimage/198462/).
> 
> As always, comments/kudos/etc. let me know what's working and what isn't. I greatly appreciate any and all thoughts you lovely readers may have. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I'm a relatively slow writer who tends towards pretty long chapters. I've also got a busy full-time job and am moving internationally two months from now, so I don't have as much time to do my slow-ass writing as I'd like. 
> 
> I also updated the tags because I realized it might be a good idea to let people know ahead of time some things that are coming up that might be a deal-breaker.
> 
> This chapter contains 2 literary Easter eggs and one overt reference ("The Spider and the Fly" by Mary Howitt). The names Will mentions while recounting a case are allusions to a horror novella, and Hannibal paraphrases a repeated line in a poem by William Butler Yeats. See if you can identify them. :)
> 
> Shit gets even weirder this chapter and there's a looooot of foreshadowing. Sharp-eyed folks will probably have a really good idea what's up after all this. Once again, thanks for your patience, and please let me know what you think.
> 
> EDIT: Accidentally missed a few lines at the end of the chapter when I was copying it over. It's been fixed.

Hannibal checks his watch for the third time. He is sitting with his legs crossed in the small conference room Sutcliffe has allowed him to co-opt for Will’s in-hospital therapy sessions. He shifts slightly, frowning faintly at the sound of the cheap leather upholstery chafing against the material of his suit. With its off-white walls, unimpressive blue-gray carpeting, and general dearth of furnishings besides the two low-quality chairs, the room is far from the luxurious standards of his office. 

He checks the watch yet again.

Just as he decides to stand and investigate the delay, the door opens. Will enters, eyes downcast. This is the first time Hannibal has seen him in anything besides inpatient scrubs, but he doubts those drab clothes hung so loose on his frame before his hospitalization. Behind the Omega is the blonde nurse he first saw when Alana burst in on his meeting with Sutcliffe. She has a bored, faintly irritated expression on her face as she ushers Will in.

“Nurse Applewhite, was it?” Hannibal asks as the nurse is attempting to leave. The Beta turns to him. “Will is ten minutes late for his appointment. May I ask what caused the delay?” 

“I had to discuss important matters with another nurse on the way here,” Applewhite says, her tone clipped.

The moment the words leave her lips, Will’s right eye twitches slightly. It’s such a tiny flicker of movement that it would be nigh-imperceptible to the average eye. It tells Hannibal all he needs to know.

“I see,” he says as he strides over to them. He curls his hand around the open door and positions himself so he stands between Will and Applewhite. He leans closer to the nurse, allowing his body language to walk the fine line between confidentiality and intimidation. This close, he can see three faint pink lines buried beneath several thick layers of foundation makeup on her right cheek. Young scars. “Please keep in mind that these early sessions are of the utmost importance for establishing the proper trust and rapport between Will and me. Such a relationship is vital for his recovery. Every moment is precious.”

“I understand,” Applewhite says as she attempts to pull the door shut after her. Hannibal’s hand keeps it firmly in place.

“See to it that it doesn’t happen again,” Hannibal says as he removes his hand from the door. Applewhite hesitates for a moment, her expression leery, before she nods slightly and departs.

Hannibal turns his attention back to Will, who is staring at him like a man presented with the world’s most complicated puzzle. It’s an expression he’s come to expect from Will, who often lapses into it during their moments of silence. It’s harmless, perhaps even a little flattering, but he looks forward to the day that that puzzled look will be replaced with one of revelation, and then of bliss and contentment. That moment is getting closer by the day.

“Tell me, Will, what were Nurse Applewhite’s ‘important matters’?” he asks as he ushers Will toward their seats.

Will scowls as he sits. He curls in on himself on the chair as he always does; it’s a subconscious attempt to keep from touching as little of the horror he sees and feels around him as possible. “Gossip. Apparently one of the things that work in the pediatric ward had a really hot date,” Will says. He winces. “One of the people.”

“I don’t mind if you address them as ‘things’ or use depersonalizing pronouns such as ‘it’ when you’re around me, Will,” Hannibal says. “Obsessively policing your thoughts is a detriment to your therapy. I want your honesty, the truth of the world as you see it.”

Will frowns. “Isn’t that counterintuitive if I’m supposed to be finding ways of coping with my situation?”

“Last week, you seemed more content to entertain the notion of killing yourself than of coping,” Hannibal says. He leans forward slightly. “I know I told you that my goal was to help you develop coping mechanisms, but that was before the happy discovery of our amaryllis. Do you want to cope or do you want to conquer?”

Will’s eyes widen slightly. He takes in a long, shuddering breath, and Hannibal can see the thudding of the pulse point vein in his neck. “Conquer,” he whispers. 

Hannibal smiles. “Then I have excellent news. I’ve gotten Dr. Sutcliffe’s permission to conduct some sessions with you in my own office. Roughly half our meetings will be here, while the rest will be in my own space.”

“Let me guess what you said to convince him of that,” Will says sarcastically. “’Scientifically speaking, the subject must be studied in other environments’?”

“More or less,” Hannibal says. “Though I hope you understand that if I ever seem to be exploiting you as a guinea pig, it is entirely for show. “

Will stares at him for a moment, managing full eye contact for a few long seconds. He looks away, and whatever he saw in Hannibal’s eyes seems enough to drain some of the residual tension out of him. “I understand,” he says quietly.

“Good,” Hannibal says. “I’m glad the foundation for trust is there. But in order for us to conquer your condition, that foundation will need to be built upon until it becomes a mighty fortress. In our first official session, we only discussed what your senses have told you about the hospital and its workers. Today, I would like to get a broader understanding of what life was like for you leading up to your illness.”

“Like what?” Will asks, squinting at him curiously.

“Like wherever the flow of conversation takes us,” Hannibal says. “But let us begin with the illness itself. Encephalitis is a peculiar ailment with a myriad of potential causes. It can be difficult to diagnose and even trickier to identify its source even at the best of times. Can you pinpoint a time when you began to suspect you were becoming ill?”

“I really don’t know,” Will mutters. He rubs his neck awkwardly. “The man who experiences vivid flights of morbid fancy for a living _might_ just have a hard time noticing the difference between healthy-but-neurotic imagination and fried-brain hallucinations. But…”

“But?”

Will shifts uncomfortably, frowning into the distance. “Things definitely seemed to escalate after the Blood Brothers case.”

“My career behooves me to keep up on abnormal psychology cases, so the nickname is familiar. But my recollection is a little hazy and you’ll have to remind me of the particulars,” Hannibal lies.

“Carl and Liam Karnstein, ages 23 and 19 respectively,” Will says. “They were raised in severe isolation by their unstable, hyper-religious Omega father. Homeschooled less in math and science and more in fire-and-brimstone Bible-thumping and the knowledge that demons and wicked beasts stalked the world to prey on the sinful. Not allowed modern entertainment and only seeing children their own age on the rarest of occasions, they retreated into dark shared fantasies which only intensified when their father died about three years ago. Shared a lot of things, those two. More than siblings should.”

“Certainly a potent recipe for aberrant behavior,” Hannibal says. “Tell me, what did they do to earn the ‘Blood Brothers’ moniker?” 

“They fetishized the good-versus-evil dynamic they were raised on. Evil creatures and the concept of a righteous warrior struggling against foul temptations to hunt them down gained an element of the erotic for them,” Will says. “They began to involve themselves in the so-called ‘real vampire’ nightlife subculture, developing personas which reflected their obsessions. Liam styled himself after the waifish, seductive Omega vampires you see in fiction. Prey as predator. Carl took on the role of the troubled, haunted Alpha vampire hunter torn between temptation and morality. Predator as prey. Going from club to club, their fantasies percolated until they finally boiled over.”

He sighs. “Jack sent me down to Austin, Texas when half the caskets in the city’s largest funeral showroom were found filled with corpses with stakes through their hearts. Twelve bodies total, all of different ages, races, and various genders. One was only dead for a few hours while others were in advancing states of decay. Each body had a non-bond-related bite mark on their necks and forensics tests revealed traces of human blood in their digestive tracks. The bites all came from the same person, though nothing matched any dental records. Same case with the blood; identical source, no match in any DNA databases.” 

“I see,” Hannibal says. “The younger brother was biting and serving his blood to willing participants they met in the clubs and then the elder brother would kill the alleged fledgling vampires.” 

“Exactly,” Will mutters. “The victims just thought they’d found someone willing to indulge some of their kinks over the weekend. The answer seems easy to reach, but it was… incredibly difficult at the time. Two codependent killers whirling around in my head with their contrasting-yet-complimentary fantasies. I was confused, and that made me sloppy.”

“What happened to you, Will?” Hannibal asks. “What did they do?”

“We were hunting for them in one of the alternative clubs downtown. All their poison running through my head made me disoriented. Got me separated from the team and knocked me out. I woke up on the riverbank under the Congress Avenue Bridge, a throbbing and leaking bite on my neck and the taste of blood in my mouth. It’d been forced down my throat while I was out cold,” Will says. He rubs his neck distractedly over where the wound must have been. When he looks up, Hannibal is staring at the spot with keen interest, so he drops his hand to his lap self-consciously.

“Do you know what happens to that bridge in the summer, Dr. Lecter? Besides being prime real estate for mosquitos,” Will says.

Hannibal gives a small shrug. “You’ll have to educate me.”

“Almost two million bats migrate there from Mexico to roost,” Will says. “There, as thousands of bats fluttered around him – shrieking and diving and chattering – I stared at the curl of Liam Karnstein’s smiling lips, red with my own blood. He held his hands up like… like he was performing an evocation, and this is what he told me: ‘You’ve been chosen as a child of the night. Now you shall live forever.’ Kind of ironic since that’s when Carl sprung out and attempted to stake me. I’m lucky I was able to fight him off and evade the two of them long enough for all the police out helping in the search to find us. They shot Carl dead, and Liam was too overwhelmed with grief to put up much protest when they arrested him.”

“A bite from a human being or the consumption of contaminated blood can lead to some dire ailments. I assume you were put through the proverbial ringer medically,” Hannibal says.

Will nods. “I got tested for everything blood-borne under the sun: HIV, hepatitis… even had to go through two weeks of rabies shots thanks to being around all those goddamned bats,” he says. “Everything came back clean. But not long after that, my imagination started to go out of control. I couldn’t sleep. Could barely eat, scarcely able to keep anything down. My body burned with fevers while my head boiled with vivid nightmares involving thirsting for blood the way a man in the desert thirsts for water. Like I was going to die if I didn’t have more.”

“You internalized part of their morbid fantasy. Unsurprising since they intended to make you their next victim,” Hannibal says. “Did you tell anyone how you were feeling? Jack Crawford? Alana Bloom?”

“No,” Will mutters. “But I did reach the breaking point and I’d decided to tell Alana what was going on. She was always looking for the right thing she could show Jack that would convince him to take me out of the field permanently; I didn’t care anymore if this was that thing. But the night before I was going to tell her, I got sicker than ever. I guess I passed out, and when I woke up… well. I had other concerns.”

“If you did not reach out to your coworkers, did you reach out to your friends?”

Will scoffs. “I complained about my migraines to my dogs,” he says. “Does that count?”

“Family?”

“Tiny and broken at the best of times, and the best of times were over 20 years ago,” Will says. “Here in the worst of times, they’re all either dead or vanished off the face of the earth. And for the latter, it’s easy to assume the former.”

“Tell me about your small, shattered family, Will. What shards did you see at the dinner table every night?”

“It was just me and my dad, who’d been taken away from a pair of abusive drunks at age 3 and bounced around in foster care until he was eighteen,” Will says quietly. “Apparently my grandma on my mom’s side lived until I was almost two, but obviously I don’t remember her.”

“And your mother?” Hannibal asks.

“Let me tell you how the birds and the bees went for my dirt-poor and desperate family in the Louisiana bayou, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, chuckling bitterly. “My parents married young. Day after high school graduation young. According to my dad, their relationship was built entirely on passion, and that’s a heat that warms and blisters. Just over a year after they married, she stormed out on him after a fight. He didn’t hear anything from her until eight months had passed and I turned up on his porch screaming my newborn lungs out. I might’ve been so young that my umbilical stump was still attached, but at least I came with a very, _very_ apologetic handwritten note. That was the last any of us heard from her.”

“Was the bond you formed with your father particularly close to compensate for that empty spot in your lives?”

Will shrugs. “At first.” 

“What changed?”

“I did,” Will says, smiling mirthlessly. “Had my first heat at 15.”

“Your father wasn’t expecting you to be an Omega?”

Will shakes his head. “Furthest thing on his mind,” he says. “Considering he was a Beta and so was the woman he thought was my mom. You tend to not expect children with sexes you’re genetically incapable of producing. Whoever left me behind wasn’t my dad’s wife, though they were really good at mimicking her handwriting.”

Hannibal says nothing. 

“He said it didn’t matter. That I’d been his son for fifteen years, and that wasn’t about to change. It did though. He became more withdrawn, started drinking more. And that was quite a feat in itself, given his habits before I presented. Six years later he’d be dead of cirrhosis and cremated by the only funeral home I could afford,” Will says. He sighs heavily, shutting his eyes. “With just me to scatta ‘m on Lake Pontchartrain.”

Will’s eyes fly open, his cheeks burning dark red with acute embarrassment. He briefly glimpses at the tiny smile on Hannibal’s lips before he averts his eyes to his own hands out of shame and indignity. When he speaks again, his words are quiet and suspiciously over-enunciated. “I’m not sure there’s a word in English that properly conveys the feeling of watching minnows gulp at your father’s ashes.”

“There is no reason for you to be embarrassed by a non-standard accent, Will,” Hannibal says. “I’m not embarrassed by mine.”

“Yours isn’t a punchline,” Will grumbles.

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, curious as he steers the conversation away from Will’s embarrassment. “Did you ever have a blood test to confirm you weren’t his biological son? Modern science may claim that it’s impossible for a pair of Betas to produce Alpha or Omega offspring together, but one never knows when a heretofore undiscovered genetic condition may appear.”

“Too expensive and degrading,” Will says. “Moving around as much as we did, it was just easier to let whatever community we drifted through assume my absent mother had been an Omega instead of a Beta. Better to shoulder the doubt and shame in silence. Easier still since by some weird coincidence, I wound up resembling the man I shared no genes with so strongly that it was almost impossible to tell who was who in photos of us at similar ages. Only differences being the quality of the photos and my dad’s lifelong tendency to wear denim everything.”

“You must not blame your father, Will. Consider how the reed warbler must feel when he realizes that his nearly-grown fledgling is a cuckoo,” Hannibal says. “He has believed that the chick he has nurtured so long is his own flesh and blood. It is understandable that he would feel shocked and perhaps even betrayed by the discovery of the truth. It’s easy to see why he would flee to the bottle to escape from a world more full of weeping than he can understand.”

Will sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes with his right hand. “Maybe,” he says, the word little more than a semi-coherent mumble. He swallows, noting that his throat is vaguely sore. He can’t remember the last time he’s spoken so much in one sitting, the last time he loosened the seal on the iron-clad floodgates he keeps his ocean of personal misery behind.

As if sensing his thoughts, Hannibal continues, “I’m very pleased you opened up to me so much today, Will. Do you feel better for confiding in someone?”

“I feel like what’s under an overturned stone,” Will says. “All sightless, squirming insects and soil unused to sunlight.”

“It may feel sensitive and uncomfortable now, but that soil can grow something spectacular if it’s tilled and properly seeded,” Hannibal says. “Don’t forget that.”

“And you’re the gardener with the green thumb?”

A smile flickers across Hannibal’s lips and he gives a small, humble shrug. “I seem to have done an acceptable job with the amaryllis,” he says. “And though floral cultivation is a perfectly respectable hobby, I’m far more at home in the culinary arts than I am in dabbling in the horticultural. It’s why I intend to prepare dinner for you before our next session.”

“You still think you can make something that I won’t perceive to be poisonous slop at best?” Will asks.

“I’m more certain than ever,” Hannibal says. “Any requests?”

Will shrugs. The way he hangs his head afterwards makes his cheeks look especially hollow under the harsh fluorescent light. “At this point, if you can make something that I can actually finish, let alone find palatable, and I don’t think I’d care for a second what it is.”

“Excellent,” Hannibal says. “I work best without restraints holding me back.”

Their conversation continues for several more minutes before the sound of a sharp knock against the door interrupts them. Will jolts like a startled animal while Hannibal merely turns his head to the source of the noise. His lips press into a firm, displeased line as he looks accusingly at the door.

The door opens and Nurse Applewhite steps in. “I’ve come to retrieve Mr. Graham,” she says.

“We still have five minutes in our session,” Hannibal replies.

“You _did_ tell me not to be late,” Applewhite says. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m just doing as you asked.”

A look of cold appraisal settles over Hannibal’s face, turning his expression stony. “So you are,” he says. He turns back to Will, the grim disapproval fading as he looks at his patient. 

He stands and strides the few steps over to Will’s seat. He reaches his hand out in an offer to help the Omega up. “Until Friday, Will.”

Will glances at the hand for a moment before accepting it. As he rises to his feet, Hannibal stands close to him, noting every tiny flicker of reaction in Will’s face. He sees a faint flush rise across the Omega’s neck, and he’s close enough to sense the tiny twinges in Will’s muscles. He must be torn between lingering in their shared proximity and skittering away nervously.

The decision is made for Will when Nurse Applewhite places her hand on his shoulder. The Omega recoils instinctively as if stung, lurching away from the touch. The nurse gives an exasperated sigh as she turns a skeptical eye to Hannibal. “I don’t know what you did to get him to warm up to you, but it’s a trick you should share with the rest of us.”

“No trick, Nurse Applewhite,” Hannibal says, glaring at the back of the nurse’s head as she escorts Will away. “It would be very heartless indeed to keep something so beneficial a secret.”

\-----

Even five minutes after the contact, Will’s shoulder still aches with a perceived wound where the thing that calls itself Applewhite touched him. He knows there is no real injury there, even as his skin and muscles throb with a pain that’s not unlike an oversized hornet sting. He rubs it gingerly as Applewhite leaves him alone in his room.

Once it’s gone, Will wanders over to his bed. He sits on the misshapen mattress and reaches toward the odd lump that is his bedside table. When his amaryllis began to wilt, he plucked a single petal from it before the nurses insisted on throwing it out. Now the petal is dried out, but still beautiful in its preservation. He sighs, returning it to its rightful place.

He lies down, intending to shut his eyes and drift off to memories of when the world was real. It’s not just a comfort anymore. Now it’s an active exercise. If there’s any idea that fills him with nauseous dread more than the notion that he’ll forever see the world in grime and gore, it’s that he’ll forget what things were like before. That the color of sunrise over a river brimming with fish, the unpleasant but real and earthy smell of his dogs after rain, the feel of Alana’s hand on his shoulder… that all these things and so much more will fade into a half-recalled fog.

But the moment his head hits the gelatinous blob he’s come to acknowledge as his pillow, he feels something strange. There’s something hard in it that he hasn’t felt before. Confused, he reaches down, slipping his hand between what feels like two cool membranes. Whatever he’s touching feels almost like a book.

When he pulls his hand back, he finds that’s exactly what it is. His eyes widen as he runs his hands over the smooth leather binding on the unexpected thing. It’s beautiful and unlike any other leather he’s seen before. The pages seem a little stiff and yellowed, but it complements the overall design of the book. There is nothing about it that appears warped or twisted in any way. When he opens it, he finds a pen strapped to the inside cover and a note on the first page. The ink is a distinct reddish-brown that Will suspects he has never seen anywhere else.

_Dear Will,_

_I hope that my hunch is right and this little token finds you well. If I’ve done it right, you should be looking at a leather-bound journal and this note from yours truly should be legible. If it’s a success, what can I say… genius is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration._

_That’s inaccurate, though. You were the inspiration behind this craft project. And you’re much, much more than 1% in this equation. I had to learn how to tan leather just for this. I’ve got to say, it’s a pretty interesting and fulfilling hobby, but it certainly takes a lot of hard work._

_But you, Will Graham, are worth every last bit of that effort. I want you to know that. I want to reach out to you and offer you someone to confide in. I know you have that fancy new psychiatrist, but never forget that Sutcliffe brought him in on your case. Can you really trust that?_

_I know there’s no reason for you to immediately trust me either, so that’s why I’d like us to play pen-pals. I might not be able to talk to you in person without causing you terror or disgust, but perhaps – if I’ve played my cards right – we can have refuge in the written word. And that’s all I want for you and from you, Will. Refuge._

_If you want to take me up on my offer, just exchange notes with me in this book and return it to your pillowcase. You won’t have to worry about anyone finding it, so you can feel comfortable saying whatever you want to say. I’ve got exclusive access when it comes to cleaning your room. Can’t say you’re terribly popular with the other orderlies, so when they found out I was not only willing to be responsible for your room but eager to… well, I was suddenly Mr. Popular when it came to swapping duties._

_Here’s hoping this is the start of a beautiful friendship. ;)_

_\- M.B._

Will stares at the words for several minutes, his mind racing. Finally, his hand trembling more than he’d like, he reaches for the pen.

 _Who are you?_ he writes beneath the unexpected message. _And why me?_

\-----

By the time Friday comes around with its promise of his first atypical session with Hannibal, Will has already written and received several notes in the leather book. Through their messages, Will has learned three things about his mysterious pen-pal: 1) he is one of the hospital orderlies, as described in his opening letter, 2) his name is Matthew, and 3) his interest in Will is worryingly heartfelt.

Will’s eyes stare at a passage he has read over and over since he first received it the day before. His fingers run across the smooth leather exterior as he reads.

 _I was there when you first woke up,_ Matthew’s scratchy handwriting states. _Applewhite was checking your vitals and I was cleaning up. We were there when you came out of the coma._

_When your eyes opened, my first thought was that I’d never seen a color like that before. That nothing I knew in person matched that particular shade of blue. The sappy stereotype would be something like ‘blue as the sea lapping at a pristine beach’, but that just wouldn’t do. The sea part fits well enough, but it’s an abyssal blue, a blue of fathomless depths and hidden crevices and strange undiscovered creatures in the deep. No bikini beach parties there, my friend._

_But before I could think any more of it, you opened them so very, very wide. Your pupils constricted to tiny black pinpricks. Your heart monitor started shrieking just as you started shrieking. You thrashed and kicked. When Applewhite leaned in in an attempt to calm you down, you scratched her up so badly that blood ran down her face like some kind of war paint. _

_While she called for support so we could sedate you, I got another good look at your eyes. And I knew instantly. It’d be a few hours before we could get you calm enough to describe what you were seeing, but somehow I knew innately what was going through your head even if I couldn’t fathom the details. I could almost see the terrors you were seeing reflected in your eyes. I could almost see myself as you saw me, monstrous and inhuman._

_It definitely leaves an impression._

Will only faintly remembers that first encounter. It’s a hazy little corner in his memory, not unlike the feeling of being half-awake during a night terror. He recalls panic and screaming and lashing out against the chittering creature looming over him, but the details are foggy at best. He remembers his second – and permanent - awakening much more clearly, the sinking realization that he is fully awake in a night terror that does not intend to end any time soon.

Perhaps it’s the haziness of that memory, but Will finds he can’t see Matthew as one of the monsters. When he shuts his eyes and pictures Matthew writing a message to him, it isn’t talons or prehensile tendrils of writhing flesh that wrap around the pen. He sees a human hand attached to a human man. He does not know the man’s race or age or secondary gender or anything else he can quantify. He is cast in shadow and all his features are indistinct, but he is human all the same.

But even though Matthew’s shadow is human-shaped in his mind, it doesn’t mean Will should lower his guard. After all, it’s hard for Will to ignore the certain obsessive quality that colors Matthew’s writing. Between his tone and content, it is rather inescapable.

He looks down at the final lines of Matthew’s most recent message.

_According to a memo from Sutcliffe, you’re scheduled to spend 6pm – 10pm in Dr. Lecter’s home as part of your ‘experimental’ therapy. Highly unusual in all ways, that. Sounds like something worth raising an eyebrow over, doesn’t it? **’Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly.**_

_Make sure the tightrope you’re walking isn’t spun from spider’s silk, Will._

Before he can pen his latest response or even think about the warning any more, he is startled by a pounding at his door. Will shoves the book back into its hiding space, heart pounding like a teenager nearly caught with a nudie magazine. 

“Come in,” he calls.

Hannibal enters, . “Hello, Will,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m nearly half an hour early. Traffic in Baltimore is rarely forgiving at the best of times, and I thought it would be best to leave early so we aren’t deprived any of our session time.”

“It’s fine,” Will says as he stands. “Not like I’m kept busy around here.”

“In that case, let’s waste no time,” Hannibal says As Will approaches him, his eyes sweep up and down the Omega’s form analytically. “You seem tense. Are you anxious about the session?”

“Less the session than what precedes it,” Will says, deflecting an omission of truth with the admission of another. 

Hannibal holds the door open for them, and Will peers down the corridor, lips curling in distaste. “I’ve grown… as numb to the sights and sounds of the hospital as I think I possibly can. The way a prisoner of war grows numb to the same torments over and over if his capturers don’t spice up their game.”

“And you can’t say the same for what may be waiting for you in the world outside,” Hannibal says. “I see.”

Will watches as the Alpha reaches into his jacket, removing a small packet from an inner pocket. He opens the packet, revealing a pair of blood red pills. He doesn’t even react with surprise when he sees them; he’s known for quite some time that his disorder doesn’t even spare medication.

“They’re mild sedatives,” Hannibal says. “I want you to take them. They’re rather fast-acting, so you should expect to begin feeling their effects by the time we can actually leave the hospital.”

Will takes the pills into his own hand. He glances up at Hannibal, a puzzled expression on his face. 

“If you’re concerned they’ll have an effect on tonight’s session, you needn’t be,” Hannibal states. “I planned to have you take them tonight regardless. You need to be relaxed for the experiment I have in mind to work. Now, let me fetch you some water-“

Before Hannibal can move from the spot, Will brings his palm up to his lips and swallows the pills dry. “Don’t bother,” he says as he steps into the grimy hallway. He feels Hannibal following just a step behind, and the Alpha’s gaze on his back is nearly a physical presence in itself.

\-----

It takes about fifteen minutes for Hannibal to get through all the redundant paperwork to temporarily have Will discharged into his care. He glimpses over at Will, who stands partially-obscured behind a nearby potted plant. The Omega’s eyes are shut and he is swaying slightly, his chin tilted up. Calmed by the start of the pills’ effects and slipped into an illusory private corner of his imagination, Hannibal suspects.

He signs the final document with a flourish and passes it to the receptionist behind the check-in desk. The middle-aged Omega woman is staring at Will with open skepticism. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into with that one, doctor?” she asks, her voice low. “He clawed up one of his nurses pretty badly.”

“I’m not deaf,” Will mutters.

“I appreciate your concern, but I have confidence in myself and, more importantly, confidence in Will,” Hannibal says. “I will return him to the hospital in a few hours’ time and I expect to be no worse for wear.”

The receptionist shakes her head. “Good luck,” she mouths.

Hannibal presses his hand to Will’s lower back. Will keeps his eyes shut, allowing himself to be guided out of the hospital doors and towards Hannibal’s waiting car. “You need to write me a prescription for these,” Will says as he collapses into Hannibal’s passenger seat. “It’s so easy to stay in my stream. Easier to ignore the horrors when they try to interrupt.”

“Your stream?”

Will nods. “It’s a beautiful sight. Clear skies. Late summer sun rising behind me. The fish are fat and easy,” Will murmurs. “It’s where I go to remember who I really am. Probably makes me sound crazier than usual.”

“Not at all. I’m partial to a palace, myself,” Hannibal says as he navigates the car out of the hospital parking lot. “However, I think a prescription may be unwise. These pills should be a tool, not a crutch. But for now, relax. We’ll be at my home shortly.”

They fall into silence. Will keeps his eyes closed for the entire duration of the trip, spending a good ten minutes teetering on the precipice of sleep and consciousness. 

The peaceful quiet is broken about three minutes away from Hannibal’s home. The car is idling at a red light when the shriek of multiple police cars tears through the evening air. Will groans, clapping his hands over his ears. When Hannibal looks over at him, he sees that the Omega’s face is twisted in agony. 

Five police cars speed through the intersection one after another; as Hannibal places a soothing hand on Will’s shoulder, he wonders if they’re en route to respond to the discovery of his latest masterpiece. For all the trials and tribulations the Baltimore police department face in their work, it’s not every day they find that the young man who has been riding the same subway train all day has his hoodie drawn low to obscure the fact that his brain has been scooped out. 

“Jesus Christ, what was that?” Will gasps once the wailing sirens are out of his range of hearing.

“A procession of police cars,” Hannibal says. “From the direction they were heading, I doubt they’ll be a nuisance in my neighborhood. What did they sound like to you?”

“Pain,” Will replies uneasily. “And screams that were simultaneously too human and not human enough.”

Hannibal keeps his hand on Will’s shoulder for the short remainder of the drive. By the time they reach Hannibal’s opulent home, Will has calmed down but is no longer as relaxed as he was prior to the sirens’ rude interruption. Hannibal guides him out of the car and towards his door slowly. The Alpha stares at Will’s face as he unlocks his door; he needs to see those eyes fly open in glorious shock.

He gets his wish the moment he nudges Will across the threshold. The Omega’s nostrils flare, and within seconds Hannibal is forced to hold Will firmly by the shoulders to help keep his suddenly weak knees up to the task of supporting his body. 

“Will?” he prompts.

“It smells like food,” Will whispers, his voice as tremulous as the shiver running up and down his spine. “Real food.”

“Excellent. So far my little experiment seems to be working out nicely. Hopefully the taste lives up to the aroma,” Hannibal says as he guides Will to the dining room and the already-set dining table. Once there, he pulls out a chair for Will, whose eyes glimmer with disbelief as they flick over the cutlery and table settings. “Have a seat. Our meal is being kept warm in the kitchen, but it won’t take me long to bring it out. In the meantime, take in my home. I’m curious what your senses make of it.”

True to his word, it takes Hannibal very little time to return from the kitchen with the food balanced expertly on a large tray. “Well, Will?” Hannibal asks as he begins positioning the dishes between their table settings. “How does my home compare to what you experience in the hospital?”

Will opens his mouth to answer, but he is struck silent as Hannibal removes the lids to the serving tureens. It takes him a moment to collect himself as he stares longingly at the steaming food. 

“Will?”

“I think… the colors and textures in this house are probably all wrong - too dark and rough - but I can at least recognize what everything is meant to be,” he murmurs. He swallows heavily. “What’s the food? Everything about it looks… perfect.”

“What we have before us is a sampling of some of Padang cuisine’s finest.” Hannibal says as he moves from dish to dish, putting a small quantity of the various colorful, spicy-scented meats, offal, and vegetables boiled in meat stock onto a plate.

He places his hand on the lid of the largest serving tureen. “But the main course of the evening is a type of curry called gulai otak,” Hannibal says as he reveals a thick orange-yellow sauce with plentiful lumps of offal stewed inside. “You’ll find the sauce is faintly sweet with coconut milk but predominantly rich thanks to a variety of spices.” 

“What is that?” Will asks, watching closely as Hannibal’s ladle scoops up a large portion of the organ meat.

Hannibal sets the plate of gulai otak, rice, and other foods before Will. “’Otak’ is the Indonesian word for brain.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to eat brain?”

“There is an increased risk of prion disease associated with brain consumption, this is true,” Hannibal says. “But if an animal were infected, no part of it would be safe to eat. Rest assured that according to my butcher, this young bull was quite angry and cantankerous, but hardly mad.” 

He finishes serving himself. “In any case, there’s little to fear since I won’t be serving you brain every time we eat together. It simply works well for our purposes this evening. You’ll need something rich and filling. Any lingering hunger could prove enough a distraction to result in failure. And I admit there’s a certain wry humor in serving literal brain food for what will ultimately be a mind-expansion exercise.”

Will nods vaguely, the words seeming to wash over him as his attention bores into the food in front of him. 

“After you, Will,” Hannibal says. 

Will dips his spoon into the gulai and scoops up the smallest morsel of brain. He brings the spoon up near his lips and glances at Hannibal again. His expression is half dubious child tasked with trying a strange and unfamiliar food, half starving prisoner given his last meal, and – in Hannibal’s eyes – all charming. Seconds after his lips close around the spoon, his eyes shut in rapture. After that, all trepidation is gone, and there is little space for charming dinner conversation over Will’s focus on his first enjoyable meal since he woke up to his ruined world.

Once they finish eating, Hannibal leads Will to his living room. “In the future, we’ll have these sessions in my professional offices,” Hannibal says. “I’ll still prepare dinners for us, but I’ll simply pack them up so we may enjoy them there. You’ll have to excuse me for wanting to make an impression by serving you our first meal together as fresh as I could make it.”

“Obviously I don’t mind,” Will says as he settles into one of Hannibal’s fine leather chairs. He rubs his hand over the material, a confused but not disgusted look on his face. “Considering I lost track of how many servings I had.”

“I’m relieved you found it palatable,” Hannibal says as he sits in a chair opposite from Will. “You were beginning to look quite sickly. I doubt you would have thrived even if you were put back on the intravenous system you endured while comatose.”

“More than just palatable,” Will says. “I think that was the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten. Like suddenly seeing color for the first time after a lifetime spent in greyscale. I just wish I knew _why_. Why you’re spared by what’s happening to me.”

“Sometimes, Will, we simply must accept things which we don’t understand. If we do ultimately determine why, then that is wonderful. But if we do not find an answer, then so be it. However, let’s put all of that aside for now. I’d like to explain your exercise.”

He reaches beneath the small table separating his and Will’s chairs. The object he places atop the table resembles a black electric lantern. “Have you heard of light therapy, Will?”

Will furrows his brow. “Not in any capacity that would apply to me.”

“You may be thinking of lamps used to help those with seasonal affective disorder or certain types of skin disease,” Hannibal says. “This is another matter entirely. This lamp will flash with a certain brightness and pattern. Combined with the mild sedatives in your system and your rich dinner, the intent is to induce a hazy, dreamlike state.”

“Hypnotism, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, a skeptical sting in his words.

“In a way. Hypnotism receives an undeserved ill reputation. Due to sensationalized depictions in media or parlor tricks, the act is viewed as potentially salacious or ludicrous. In your case, my goal is to allow you to relax enough to harness your innate potential. You might refer to it as your imagination.”

“Accessing my imagination is the exact opposite of the problem I’ve had all my life,” Will grumbles.

“Accessing something is not the same as harnessing it. You are overwhelmed by your imagination, the way a man may be pulled along by a large, aggressive dog on a leash. But if you train it properly, then it will be a loyal companion that obeys your orders. Whatever they may be.”

“And you think if I’m… what, in complete control of myself… it’ll help me see the world properly again?”

“I’m certain of it.”

Will swallows heavily. “Then it’s worth a try.”

Hannibal nods and reaches forward, switching the lamp on. He lets it run in silence for nearly a minute, watching as Will adjusts to the flashes of light and darkness filling the room. “Pay close attention to the light and its absence, Will,” he says. “Watch until you can nearly feel it pulsing.”

Will’s shoulders begin to slump. His eyes droop until they are heavy and half-lidded.

“I feel it,” Will murmurs. “A heartbeat formed of light and shadow.”

“Good. Next, I want you to focus on how the air feels around you. It has a weight, a presence that you could reach out and touch. Lift up your hand and feel its texture.”

Will lifts his right arm slowly. His fingers flex in the air and a hazy look of surprise appears on his face. “It’s like a veil.”

“And veils can be pulled away. Focus on grasping it between your fingers.”

Will’s brows furrow in concentration. “It’s difficult. Slips away.”

“The more you train, the easier it will become. You are doing exceptionally well for a first attempt, Will. Keep it up.”

With a small gasp of effort, Will’s index finger, middle finger, and thumb press together. “Got it.”

Hannibal leans forward. “You mentioned your stream to me earlier. It’s out there, waiting for you. Feel the veil between your fingers and know that behind it is your stream. Slowly, peel it away and see.”

Will begins to move his hand in the air. His breathing becomes a little heavier, a little more strained, as tiny beads of sweat glisten near his temples. As he strains, the impossible happens. In midair, right where Will’s pale, shaking hand is moving, there is a small glimpse to somewhere else. The sky is blue and trees line the bank of the stream. A breeze pushes through the window, ruffling Will’s hair.

The strain finally proves too much, and with a gasp, Will’s fingers release and he slumps back against the chair. With his eyes shut and his breath coming in exhausted pants, Will does not see the glimpse to the stream disappear as the folds of reality he had wrinkled smooth back into place. 

Hannibal stands and switches off the lamp before striding over to Will. His eyes gleam with pride and satisfaction as he looks down at the exhausted Omega before him.

“What was that?” Will whispers, his eyes blinking open sleepily. “Hypnosis dream? God, so tired.”

Hannibal kneels down beside Will’s chair. He rests his hand on Will’s upper arm, gently rubbing the spot. “It was an astonishingly successful first step on your journey, Will. You should rest before I return you to the hospital. But first, while your mind is still open, I have a question for you. Earlier this week, you said you didn’t know how to feel at your one-man funeral for your father. What’s the closest word for bow it felt to watch those little fish bobbing at your father’s ashes?”

“It felt… like a waste.”

“Like he had wasted his life on alcohol and doubt?”

Will shakes his head, the movement heavy and slightly drunken. His brow furrows and his eyes squint, as if he is working through a difficult puzzle. 

Hannibal peers at Wil, keenly interested. “What, then?”

“Sleep,” Will mutters. His eyelids flutter, remaining closed more often than not.

“Stay with me for a few seconds longer, Will,” Hannibal says. “You may rest once you describe the feeling.”

“Like… a missed opportunity,” Will murmurs. His voice is quieter and more distant with each subsequent word. “Like a transgression. A word from a time before words.”

With that, exhaustion finally wins against Will. His eyes close for good and his breathing evens out into the long, deep breaths of sleep.

Hannibal leans forward, sliding his hand up Will’s arm to cradle the sleeping Omega’s jaw. “You’ll know the right word soon enough,” he murmurs. “It’s already heavy on your tongue. You just need the means to express it.”


	4. AUTHOR'S NOTE

Unfortunately, this obviously isn't a chapter. I'm not the biggest fan of non-chapter updates in stories, and I'm sure I'm not alone in that, but I feel it's rather necessary in this case.

So, as you can see on the current fic description, I put this story on hiatus so I could move from Japan to Texas at the end of August. After I arrived, things were very hectic for 2 weeks as I was making new living arrangements, job hunting, and getting started on settling my mom's legal affairs after her passing in January. But I got a lot of writing done in my downtime. As of three weeks ago, the latest chapter of Dies Irae was a paragraph or two shy of completion.

And then my laptop's hard drive died. 

I just got my computer back after 3 weeks in the shop (dozens of attempts to retrieve data), and I. Lost. Everything.

The new chapter of Dies Irae and the brief notes for later chapters. Notes for future Hannibal fics I want to write. Pages and pages of notes and chapters and chapters of an original novel I'm writing. And worst of all: hundreds of irreplaceable pictures from my 2 years in Japan. All of it gone forever.

Needless to say, I am equal parts pissed and distraught. Fortunately, as far as this story is concerned, I have a very clear concept of how I want the story to progress and finish. I'm pretty sure I can replicate my notes for the story just because I've gone over the details in my mind over and over.

I will absolutely be finishing this story, but I have to start from scratch for chapter 4 and on. Anybody who's reading this had a long wait already due to the move, and now this mess has happened. I sincerely apologize. But rest assured that I'm as invested in Hannibal and the stories I am writing/plan to write for it as ever. I just ask for your continued patience in this deeply shitty time.

This note will be deleted when the next chapter is ready.


End file.
